The Unwashed
Rumbles of boredom
lead me to eat
but then there are the unwashed,
the residue of the crumbling
and smeared. Greasy utensils
sneaking like sharks
amongst the soaking dishes.
We need to refresh this pond
with chemical bubbles
yet hands are too dilatory
to be daubed by yesterday’s food.
One has to judge with perfect timing
whether to wash the plates or
leave them to poison the sink
for another hour or two.
The essential factors are smell
and guilt.
When the sludge of the once edible
blossoms rudely in your sink,
or the shredded rinds
of a latent rigor mortis
coat themselves with the pimpled oils
of a nibbling fungus,
only then is it time to reassess
just how peckish
you are for leftovers.
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